Authors: Fay Jacobs
Fried & True (26 page)
December 2005
It was Christmas morning and Bonnie and I headed over to Laurel Street for breakfast. Bonnie promised to make pancakes and Muriel would insist, once again, that I try her cheesy grits (no really, they were actually cheddar grits).
But the minute we arrived we knew something was wrong. Anyda, who is usually up giving orders to the roosters, was still in the bedroom. She started to make her way down the hall but had to lean on the doorway to the dining room on her way. Bonnie helped her to a chair.
“What's the matter?”
Muriel piped up. “She had a terrible night. I don't know what's wrong.”
“Are you sick?” I asked. “What can we do for you?”
Anyda just stared blankly ahead, not answering.
“Do you want us to take you to the hospital,” Bonnie quietly asked. There was a too long pause.
“Maybe you'd better,” Anyda whispered in Bonnie's ear. “But let's have breakfast first. I don't want to ruin Muriel's holiday.” Oh so typical.
We hurriedly prepared pancakes, three of us ate a little, Anyda had only a mouthful or two. Then we told Muriel we were taking Anyda to the hospital.
We called a friend to stay with Muriel, helped Anyda into the car, sped to the emergency room and called ahead for a wheelchair to get Anyda into building.
There were tests, scans, questions, x-rays, moments of quiet, a lot of hand-holding. We knew that Anyda had been having stomach trouble for a while, easily attributable to age. She had also been hospitalized for a bleeding ulcer two months before, but that had cleared up nicely. Anyda continued to complain of weakness though, and was aggravated she wasn't getting her strength back. She was furious about it. But
we figured that a bleeding ulcer can take a lot out of anybody, much less someone of 94.
By afternoon, the emergency room doctor came into Anyda's cubicle and pulled the curtain around the three of us.
To his credit, he spoke directly to Anyda instead of to us. It was probably Anyda's commanding personality that prevented her from being treated as an invisible old lady. All the same, I knew at that moment how terribly frail and tired she was. And a little pissed off, although she would never put it that way.
“We have found a mass in your abdomen. We need to see if it's cancer and then decide on a treatment plan.”
Startled, Anyda addressed the doctor very slowly and very clearly. “There will be no treatment. I am almost 95 years old. Why would I have treatment?”
The doctor had no answer. Anyda nodded. Case closed. Eventually she was admitted to the hospital and transferred to a room upstairs. Other friends arrived to hold the fort and we returned to Laurel Street to get Muriel and bring her to be with Anyda.
Ever concerned for others, Anyda insisted, vehemently, that we leave the hospital and carry on with our regular holiday plansâChristmas dinner in our neighborhood with a large group of friends. Anyda announced she'd be fine with Muriel by her side.
By this time, other family-like friends had arrived and promised to take Muriel back home when she was ready. From what I understand, the pair spent about an hour together, mostly just holding hands before Muriel tired and needed to return to Laurel Street.
The situation reminded everyone of a time several years before when Muriel was hospitalized with heart trouble. Most people, including the doctors, thought she wouldn't be coming home. The entire time she was hospitalized, and for weeks following, while Muriel was miraculously improving in a convalescent home, Anyda stayed by her side day and night, sleeping in a chair in her room, or in a stray empty bed.
When Bonnie was hospitalized several years ago, I tried to stay day and night and couldn't do it. No matter how much I wanted to do so, it was too exhausting.
It wasn't too exhausting for elderly, iron-willed Anyda.
And even now, in her mid-nineties she was no shrinking violet. After tests confirmed the diagnosis, she demanded she be checked out of the hospital, called Betsy to come get her and headed home. Arrangements were made.
Hospice staff set up a bed in the living room. Friends came and went. Cocktail hour went on as always. For many hours during each day, Muriel would sit in her wheel chair, by the hospital bed. Anyda kept insisting that the doctors were wrong. She was furious about being confined and took to telling visitors that they should help her get up and dressedâand if they couldn't do that, they might as well just go home.
Although she was absolutely furious at her deteriorating condition, she continued to rule the roost, giving orders to hospice staff, requesting not just tea, but Prince of Wales tea, discussing headlines in the
Washington Post
(Oooh, that horrible Rumsfeld creature!) and demanding her nightly 5 p.m. cocktail.
The parade of visitors spoke to Anyda and Muriel's vast circle of friends. And at cocktail hour Anyda would remind me not to make Muriel's drink too strong. And Muriel would hold the glass up to the light and complain that the drink looked awfully pale.
Charlie bartended; Betsy did errands. They both spent a great deal of time by Anyda's bedside and with Muriel, who sat in her recliner, mostly lost in thought, in the sunroom. Charlie cooked some of the ladies' favorite things; Bonnie continued to make Muriel smile a little, and then went about changing the cat litter, feeding the critters and doing other familiar chores. We circled the wagons. Charlie and Betsy held the fort like heroes. Bonnie was at the house as much as she could be. I spent time in the living room, reading letters, old and new to Anyda, talking about book projects and keeping that brilliant
mind engaged. One afternoon she said to me, “You know, you are the future of A&M Books.”
I knew. I was honored. I didn't want it just yet.
“You know the vision, you must remember the vision.”
I knew, I would.
New Years' Eve came and went. We put up a good front, toasting to 2006, but knew Anyda probably wouldn't see much of it.
One day, as Anyda napped, Muriel, Bonnie, and I argued the merits of Dewars versus Johnny Walker. Although Anyda had been spending most of her time asleep and had not been engaged in our conversations for the past day or two, as we continued the comparison, she raised her head, looked at us with authority and announced “the virtue of Johnny Walker is that it can be found all over the globe.” We drank to that.
Muriel retreated into silence, reading a little, eating very little, taking her pills, and reluctantly scooting, in her wheelchair, off to the bedroom at night.
Charlie, Betsy and Bonnie took turns staying overnight so there was a family face by the bed in addition to the hired caregiver. The trio helped bathe Anyda, give her pain medication, and get her anything she requested. After a few days, it wasn't much more than tea. Then, not even that.
After Anyda passed away, I sat down to write her obituary, attempting to convey an incredible 94 years in less than 500 words
.
ANYDA MARCHANT
ATTORNEY, NOVELIST, PUBLISHER
1911-2006
Anyda Marchant, 94, retired attorney, novelist, and publisher died January 11 at her home in Rehoboth Beach, DE.
Ms. Marchant was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, moving with her family to Washington, DC at age six. After earning her undergraduate degree, followed in 1933, by her law degree from the National University of Washington, DC (now George Washington University), she was admitted to practice in Virginia and DC, and before the U.S. Court of Claims and the U. S. Supreme Court. As a law student, she served for a year as assistant to women's rights pioneer Alice Paul, who was then doing research for an Equal Rights Amendment.
In 1940, she was appointed assistant in the Law Library of Congress in the Latin American Law section. She returned to Rio to work and then did a brief stint as a translator at the 1948 Pan American Union conference in Bogotá, Columbia. From there she went to work at a New York law firm, and then back in Washington as one of the first female attorneys for the law firm now known as Covington and Burling. After this, she was briefly with the Bureau of Domestic and Foreign Commerce of the U.S. Department of Commerce, and with a private practice representing claimants before the U. S. Court of Claims for compensation arising from military service in the Philippines during the Japanese invasion. She then moved to the legal department of the World Bank. She served the World Bank for
18 years until retiring in 1972.
That same year, Marchant and her life partner Muriel Crawford founded the Naiad Press as a vehicle for publishing Marchant's first novel,
The Latecomer
, written under the pen name Sarah Aldridge. From there, Naiad became an avenue for the publication of other feminist and lesbian literature. In 1974 Naiad Press was formally incorporated in Delaware when Marchant and Crawford added Barbara Greer and Donna McBride as shareholders. Marchant served as Naiad president from its inception until the mid-1990's. Naiad published eleven Sarah Aldridge novels and grew to be a powerhouse in feminist publishing. In 1995 Marchant and Crawford withdrew from Naiad and began their own publishing company, A&M Books in their hometown of Rehoboth Beach. A&M published the last three Sarah Aldridge novels along with the book
As I Lay Frying, a Rehoboth Beach Memoir
by author Fay Jacobs. Passionate about supporting feminist writers, Marchant continued her publishing and mentoring activities until very recently, highlighted by A&M's October 2005 release of the novel
Celebrating Hotchclaw
by feminist literary icon Ann Allen Shockley.
Marchant is survived by Crawford, her partner of 57 years, as well as a large circle of loving friends.
An obituary or other comments about Anyda's passing appeared in
The Washington Post, The Advocate, Chicago's Windy City Times, The Washington Blade,
and many more mainstream and gay and lesbian papers, magazines and online newsletters, plus many publishing industry publications. And of course, our local Rehoboth area newspapers, noting the loss of a local legend
.
Losing Anyda broke my heart
.
But it was an honor to speak at her memorial service
.
I met Anyda when she was 84 years young. For a decade she's been my friend, mentor, publisher and the most demanding
boss I've ever had. I wish I had had more time.
Anyda was born in 1911 and I can only begin to imagine the events, the innovations and the history she experienced in 94 brilliant years.
To put it in perspective, one day Anyda and I sat debating the relative power of First Lady Hillary Clinton vs. first lady Nancy Reagan. “Well,” said Anyda, “neither could hold a candle to Florence Harding.” I had to look it upâFlorence was First Lady in 1921.
Anyda was the feminist's feminist. She worked for Women's rights pioneer Alice Paul, researching the very possibility of an Equal Rights Amendmentâin 1932.
During World War II, Anyda's supervisor at the Library of Congress was drafted and she was promoted to his job. At war's end, she dutifully stepped aside so he could return to his positionâbut then, on principle, left the Library rather than take a lesser jobâin 1945.
When Anyda was hired as one of the first female attorneys at a prestigious law firm, she met Muriel Crawfordâbeginning 57 years of devotion to each other. And this was 1948âbefore any public respect for, or even acknowledgement of same sex relationships. Theirs was a courageous, willful and against many odds, joyous path.
Through the years the couple shared adventures around the globe for Anyda's job with the World Bank. They began spending time in Rehoboth Beach, buying their first home here almost a half century ago. Anyda and Muriel hosted Delaware's first-ever National Organization of Women meeting. Anyda loved describing the women arriving at the house, as neighbors lurked, one actually hiding behind a tree, to see which Rehoboth females had the courage to show up. Rehoboth had its consciousness raised.
In 1972, Anyda retired, wrote novels and, with Muriel, founded Naiad Pressâwhich became the most successful independent feminist publisher in the United States and the world.
Anyda wrote; Muriel transcribed. They opened their home and big front porch for cocktails and conversation with a diverse crowd of neighbors, writers, musicians, clergy, young, old, gay, straight, locals, visitors, democrats, and even Republicans.
In 1995, Anyda and Muriel started A&M Books of Rehoboth. Anyda's 14th novel was published in 2003 when the novelist was 92. For her next project, in 2004, she published the works of a little known Rehoboth columnist. I was honored. But perhaps one of Anyda's proudest professional moments, came with the publication of a new novel by legendary feminist author Ann Allen Shockleyâjust this past October. In my later years, I hope I can be half as giddy with glee as Anyda was the day the new books arrived from the printer.
The remnants of 2005 and the first 11 days of 2006 were tough. She was home in a hospital bed in the living room, but she insisted it be tilted at the perfect angle so she could see Muriel in her chair in the back sunroom and call “Yoohoo, Sweetie” and wave.
Two days before the end, I got the opportunity to read a letter to Anyda from a woman named Carol Seajayâformer editor of the
Feminist Bookstore News
and a superstar in the publishing industry. In part, the letter read
“Anyda, it was your vision of a possible world in your first lesbian novel and your vision that we could have such books, and your vision and skills that launched our first, grand lesbian publishing houseâand published books that have gone out all over the world, changed countless women's lives, giving hope and opening doors. Yours was an awesome body of work and I hope you are fiercely proud of it all.”
She was. And everyone was proud of her. And just this weekâJanuary 2006 I received an e-mail from two young women from Utah, telling me of their isolation there and asking if the Sarah Aldridge books were still available. Thanks Anyda, from them and from me.